Piteous
by QueenWaffleWriter
Summary: A girl comes crashing through the detective's life, quite literally. And she's springing up a new case for our favorite consulting detective. The fangirl silently swoons over him, all the while, trouble with friends and finding out Moriarty's new motive. She struggles to grasp the realness of the alternate universe, and she finds herself stuck helplessly. (Abandoned.)
1. An Introduction

"Sherlock."

There sat a girl. Rather pitiful, really, wrapped in weighing blankets, panting in her own obsession. The lights were all off, and only the television light flickered throughout the room and on her unblinking face. She had squealed the name as he did a rather handsome hair ruffle through the screen.

She was alone in her apartment, curled into a futon mattress that doubled as he bed. A crazed giggle slipped her lips, as she practically wiggled in her own hysteria, unconditional love for this fictional character. Her hands ran up her face as her innards squeezed and she squealed.

Crack.

She froze. Her once elated face dropped into a puddle on the ground. She squinted, confusion lacing her skin into icy goosebumps despite the blankets. She rose into a more flexible position, a half-crouch. Her eyes stared incredulously at the cracked television screen.

Crack.

It was like someone was stepping on broken ice. The screen's flickering image paused throughout various scenes that were not in the order she recognized. A high-pitched cry fell from her mouth as the screen went dark. An eerie silence filled the air as she sat in complete oblivion, only able of listening to her television's ominous cracking.

Crack.

Crack.

The girl had been holding her breath, waiting for whatever was to come. She exhaled in relief, realizing how silly she was, pushing away all the imagined terrors that had sprung into her mind.

She truly should have waited a few moments. The girl screamed bloody murder, only to be cut off when her breath was knocked out of her. For a split second, the television flicked with light, but it quick blinked out, as if someone had snapped their fingers. A rush of air swept through the room. She lashed out violently against the tornado-like winds.

She could hear her belongings smashing in the direction of her television. Gasps left her mouth as she scrambled to grab onto something, all the while her items rammed into her. She felt the crack of glass against her head- her grandmother's vase, an expensive one, at that. The clink of silverware rattled somewhere from inside the kitchen.

The girl cried in terror, but she couldn't escape the grasping winds. Her blankets were sucked away like a vacuum, leaving her blindly grasping for something to hold onto. She ducked into the futon, but she felt it being tilted towards the source of the forceful air current.

Things she could not see swirled around her, all the while her screaming did not come to an end. That is, of course, until the television swallowed her up, leaving an empty house in its wake.

~ᏕᏂᏋᏒᏝᎧፈᏦ ᏂᎧᏝᎷᏋᏕ~


	2. Chapter 1

Coughing. Her body was choking on her own saliva, a gasping, forceful kind of way. The asphalt underneath her felt hot against her legs, like a skillet. Her limbs felt about to snap, as they were weak from the aimless tumble the television had spouted her out into. For a panicked moment, she wondered how she looked, shards of glass sticking out from her skin, splatters of blood trailing in her short platinum blonde hair. Oh, she must have looked absolutely marvelous.

When the episode of coughing had ended, she attempted to regain some of her senses. Her vision taunted her as it faded blurrily, refocusing from time to time. Pain raced up and down her body, and at this point, she had no idea where any of her wounds were. Her lungs ached and she resorted to deep, long breaths.

It took her a full minute to understand that she was pinned underneath her heavy futon mattress. Too weak to move, she scanned her surroundings. To her horror, all her belongings had been flung into an alleyway. She scrunched her eyes in confusion. An alleyway?

Letting out one last sputtering cough, she reached out with a free arm, trying to pry herself free from the weight pressing on her lungs. Her other limbs were trapped and pinned to the dirty floor with a few of the blankets that had been ripped away in the struggle. As the weight crushed down on her, she scrambled and struggled to get out. She figured there must have been more than just a futon above her because it felt like a lion was sitting on top, perhaps snacking on a fresh gazelle.

It must have been midnight, as it had been at her own place, with only the streetlights flickered down on the sidewalk a few feet from her. It put an eerie feeling in the pit of her stomach, reminding her of the television light in her living room only minutes before.

She froze like a Greek statue when she heard the shuffling of feet down the sidewalk. Desperately, she tried to push the mattress off of herself and call for help, but her voice was hoarse and raw from the dust in the air.

"-some tests to run." A baritone voice spoke plainly about a block away, she guessed. Her heart seemed to stop at the familiarity of it. The voice she'd last heard before she was sucked into this alleyway. The voice she only heard in her dreams. A voice, she knew, only belonged the one and only curly-haired consulting detective-

Sherlock Holmes.

In the right moment, the girl would have squealed her fangirling heart out, because they were meeting a celebrity, Benedict Cumberbatch, and his cheekbones. All at once. Again, she clinging to the idea that she was only delirious, dreaming, dead, or in a coma.

Little gasps were all she could manage to get out, watching as shadows inched on the sidewalk a few feet ahead of her. A rambling detective strode past, clad in his iconic coat, with somewhat limping John behind him.

Trying to clear her head, she thought about her state. Most likely a few broken ribs from the way she'd remembered landing. She could feel the trickle of blood down her skin, so she had been cut indefinitely by flying glass. She was concerned about the silverware that had later smacked her head in their blind toss. Squeezing her fist, she fought to remain conscious. She let out a weak cough to grab the pair's attention, which took a surprising amount of energy. Her neck weakened at the sudden movement, and she face-planted in failure and exhaustion. She was going to die under her futon. Who'd have thought?

She tried to let out a gasping sob of relief when she heard the detective pause, "Someone in the alley." He spoke quickly to his friend, stepping nearer with confidence in his claim. She assumed he was examining the oddity of her entire interior design- strewn about the alleyway.

"What?" A softer, yet firm voice asked from the sidewalk in bewilderment. The voice of John Watson, the army doctor she knew only in a fictional world. Sherlock silenced him with a hand.

"Girl. Under the mattress." The detective informed briefly, saving his energy to take in the details of the situation. His eyes flickered over the strange items in a pile of the alleyway, and he took notice of the clothing and household belongings all stacked onto the futon, with the obviously shuddering teenager underneath. He quickly began to shove the large refrigerator off the mattress, along with a printer, which clattered to the ground in broken shards of porcelain. Carefully, he began to brush the items off like a bulldozer.

Skeptical John hobbled over to the situation, crouching and peering under the mattress, where his eyes met a shivering girl. "Uh, it's alright. I'm a doctor." He stated awkwardly, trying to lift the mattress and relieve the weight off of her while Sherlock took care of the mess.

A faint and fragile squeak came from underneath, "I know."

John raised an eyebrow in faint curiosity, reaching a hand out to hold her's in comfort.

An annoyed grunt escaped from Sherlock above, "You sure own plenty of items for someone who lives on her own. You're lucky the stove and dishwasher didn't land on top of you.. or there might have been a different outcome."

John chose to ignore his intruding and crude comment towards the girl. He was focused on her and was glad when she hummed softly, perhaps in humor, but otherwise in agreement. It was always a good sign when they responded.

Suddenly, the weight of the mattress had lifted off her, and she let out a hesitant, shaky sigh, still not trusting in her ability to judge when danger has cleared. Strong hands came from above her, yanking her up by the armpits gently. She ignored the fact that they belonged to the world's only consulting detective and kept eye contact with John.

John gingerly looked over her wounds, gently prodding and poking, "Scraped knees, broken arm, two cracked ribs... glass wounds that will need to be treated. Exhaustion." His hands ghosted over the bleeding disaster, "Don't drop her, she won't be able to walk." He scrutinized the wounds.

"Yes, I saw her knees buckle." Sherlock dismissed casually. He handed the girl off to John, unnerved when it came time for human interaction. He turned to his cellular technology.

It was implied they were to call an ambulance. Sherlock quickly flipped out his handy phone and dialed emergency numbers while John quickly set to wrapping the girl's arm over his broad shoulder and his under her armpit to carry her weight. Her steps were shaky and uncoordinated, and her eyes were dilated, showing the trauma the incident had left on her. He was worried about her consciousness, so he decided that discussion might be best. "So, what's your name?" He asked in his stern, doctor voice.

"Ashton." She spluttered gracelessly, "Uh, but... Ash-sh is fine." Her voice was still dry and croaky, her voice breaking as she winced. She wondered if this was some cruel dream turned nightmare that was playing with her emotions. It seemed lucid enough and very real, as real as her headache pounding right now.

Ashton's mouth flowed words she didn't hear. She babbled on about something that either must have made sense, as she deducted sluggishly from John's expression, or he was just trying to keep her attention. Either way, her tongue, and lips were numb in pain so she couldn't comprehend anything she rambled of.

Sherlock blocked out the conversation, and in the few seconds he waited for the phone to be picked up, he observed the girl as the two shuffled down the street. She was obviously in some sort of shock, which the heavy breathing and rapid heartbeat.

There were obvious scrapes on her knees, suggesting she had been thrown to the ground, and the scratches on her hands showed she had been fully conscious while doing so. Glass cuts ran along the front of her body, the vase shards easily recognized. Ah, the vase. A household item. Obviously, very old- generations old, so, passed down. Gift from a parent, perhaps.

Sherlock pushed that information to the side for a moment. She had a futon, so she wasn't living it big... flat, then. Sherlock's gears churned- American accent. Tourist? No, no, no, stupid thought. Her entire wallet was filled with American money and essentials, nothing hinting England, much less London.

A single bed.. so she was living on her own, then? So obviously not too young into her teens. A quick flip of her wallet confirmed his suspicions. She was nineteen.

Sherlock was quick to give the address and current situation of the teen to the operator, who told him the details of how quickly they'd be there. He hung up in impatience and out of impulse. Sherlock sent a text to Lestrade without thinking too deeply about it.

In a spurt of doubt that they weren't her belongings, he dismissed it immediately. Her wallet was at the top of the stack, along with a few necklaces, diaries he'd barely skimmed in a matter of a second, and letters that all directed back to her- Ashton.

The one thing that grabbed his attention was her clothes. Pajamas. Why had she been in her pajamas? To sleep, obviously. It was midnight.

A single mind-blowing idea came to him. Perhaps, he'd be able to lay out her entire house from how she'd been found in the alleyway, starting with the theory she'd been nearest to her futon. Which made quite a lot of sense; she was in her pajamas, she'd been smothered in blankets and her futon, and he hadn't seen any other bed, conclusion, her entire house had been spouted on top of her. Unfortunately, he had contaminated his beautiful evidence. What a stupid mistake.

Even if it had been, how would that be possible? It was an incredibly absurd idea, even for Sherlock, but all the facts were laid out. Suspicion was pointing to the television with the broken screen, whose glass had failed to appear anywhere. What did the television have to do with it?

And how did she have nothing from England? That thought came to mind, also. Even her pajamas screamed American, with their blue hue, dotted in little white stars and repulsive American flags. Her I.D., her driver's license- America. Had she come to visit someone? Doubtful. There were no signs of luggage, and he was sure a kitchen knife wouldn't be legal on a plane under Mycroft's watch.

He was stumped, and it bothered him like nothing else.

Sirens cut off his inner chatter and he realized he'd been in his mind palace. The teen was barely conscious. The detective watched as paramedics took the girl from John and hustled to get her inside the ambulance. Sherlock hummed softly to himself, "She didn't seem too injured. Doubt she had a concussion."

John huffed, eyes lock on the ambulance carting the girl in. "Did you see her condition? She needs to get to the hospital. Meanwhile-" He cut his gaze with the scene, "-what are you doing?"

"Taking a few photos." Sherlock was quick to answer, sweeping his phone around while snapping various angles. He grinned widely, turning to the blogger, "Ooh- John. What an excellent case, indeed."

And a mystery, at that.

Later...

Ashton's world was white. Maybe death had finally snatched her. Fortunately, she quickly found that was not the case as a blinding light filled her vision and memories flooded her. After a bit of blinking, the blurry image of a hospital room was visible. Obnoxious beeping echoes off the walls. Her head felt heavy, filled with drugs, she guessed.

A black shadow clashed against the white wall caught her attention, and she met her drowsy eyes with a curly-haired man in a black long coat who sat on the chair at the end of the room. She blinked, as her mind must have been betraying her. That was Sherlock Holmes.

His controlled gaze held still. It was like Sherlock was looking at her with a microscope, his gaze never left. He said nothing, continuing to study the behavior of the strange girl.

"You." She croaked out with a whisper. It had a strange rasp of awe to it. A fear and craze she could not describe. A terror in her veins that sparked excitement.

"Me," Sherlock replied, his gaze still unwavering.

Ash let out a breath, "Thank you." It was subtle, quiet, but truthful and meaningful. She would have at least been under that futon for a few days, and just the thought of that made the heart monitor sound an extra beat.

Sherlock held his head high, a spark of pride in himself clearly shimmering in those multi-colored pupils. He was intrigued. The look that he only had when he had a case- and a good one, at that.

Her slow state of mind might have been lagging due to all the painkillers running through her blood, but she still knew to leave herself alone in with the mysterious detective...

...was rather dangerous.

~ᏕᏂᏋᏒᏝᎧፈᏦ ᏂᎧᏝᎷᏋᏕ~


	3. Chapter 2

Ash cleared her throat, "So... Sherlock Holmes." She tested the name; although she had said it many times, it felt different. When she shuffled in the sheets of the hospital bed, she was met with intense eyes from across the room. Gulping, she spoke carefully, "Are your deduction skills really all they say to be?"

She watched him carefully, looking for signs that this was only a figment of her imagination or some twisted game. She returned his intruding look, curious, one that Sherlock was eager to impress with his observation skills. He'd always loved showing off his brilliant mind.

Sherlock didn't flinch, nor did he blink; he kept his bright eyes trained on the girl in his living room, "Better." He challenged with a small glimmer in his eye. He hummed in thought, "Most people don't ask for the.. truth."

Ash grinned, "I'm not most people."

Sherlock leaned back, smirking faintly, "You're right, you're not. You're nineteen, living on your own in an apartment, you would call it because you are American. Obvious by your flat accent and your hideous pajamas. Your parents are deceased, leaving you with an ancient vase that you fought to keep in as best condition as you could. Unfortunately, it's shards ended up sending you to the hospital. We both know you got it from their funeral.

"You are rather a special case. I have found no leads as to why you are here. It's something I cannot put my finger upon. Something that doesn't add up." He narrowed his eyes, "I've two questions for you, Ashton: how did you get to London, and how did your belongings end up in an alley, on top of you, no less?" His eyes dug into hers like a shovel, searching for the answers he did not have.

Ash hummed thoughtfully, "Grandmother. My grandmother died." It may have been her stalling method, but it was still a sting to her heart to admit that, reminding herself the loss she had felt only a year ago, but she forced herself to breathe and focus. Mourning would do no good right now- it would only show weakness.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised as he realized his mistake, "Oh!" He exclaimed, "Your parents already were dead long ago. You're grandmother pampered you... typical. I should have known- ah! The vase! The vase-" He stopped, his face twisting back into a void of emotion, "You're avoiding my questions."

Ash swallowed, blinking at him, "You'd never believe me." It came out as a whisper, something that held fear- fear of isolation. She thought back to the television swallowing her up and spitting her out into the alley like gum, the inarguably scariest thing she'd ever experienced in her life.

"You'd be surprised." The detective's face didn't move an inch, only his eyes followed hers. His hand curled and uncurled, waiting to hear he was correct, that he hadn't been missing anything. That his strange discoveries were true. His impatience was growing along with his curiosity.

Ashton shook her head, "No. You don't understand. I'm not really feeling up for a mental asylum- thanks." She attempted to sit up, and quietly yipped in surprise when the forceful, yet gentle arms of Sherlock Holmes push her back down.

He looked down at her with boredom, "Doctors orders." He defended innocently, sitting back down. He leaned back, hands clasped like a tent, "Now please, do go on."

Ash was like a deer in the headlights, she couldn't get over how real this seemed, "I was sitting alone in my apartment. Watching..." Fear clawed at her gut. "Watching a show."

Sherlock only grew more curious by her vague answer. She was hiding something. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "You're skipping over important details. What, might I ask, was the name of this... show?" He couldn't help but impatiently ask for answers he didn't have.

Her eyes widened a fraction, and she rambled too quickly, "That- isn't important. I- uh. I was watching a show." She tested before resuming, "And I had all the lights turned off. I was getting comfortable, because.. I watch it in order to fall asleep." What an embarrassing chunk to admit. "And then, um, the television screen just... cracked. The screen when black, and I couldn't see anything... and... and the screen was still cracking. Everything just, I dunno." She scratched her head, slouching into the comfy couch. "The television just swallowed everything up. It was dark, so I can't really tell you what I saw... it just spat me out on a London alleyway."

She left out the fact that she was also in a different universe.

Ashton looked up to meet the eyes of the consulting detective. He was muttering aimlessly, deep in thought. His head snapped back to her, "I need the name. Tell me the name of the show."

Ash stared incredulously at the famous detective, "You... believe me?" She still tried to swerve him from answers. Her stalling methods were getting weak.

The detective lets out an irritated breath, "It's all lined up. Theory is, you were closest to the television, thus you got thrown out first. The items closest to you followed, until it reached the other end of the house. You really should keep your wallet closer to you, you know.

"It's not the most believable statement to the wary mind... but the facts add up alright enough. The television's glass failed to show up anywhere, even after tests being run."

She blinked in surprise, "How did you-"

"Lestrade is extremely quick with case information... although I won't comment about his cognitive processes. I sent him a text while we heroically saved you." He dismissed, "He also had your blood checked- no results. There's no proof of you ever existing. You're nobody.

"Now, please give me the name of the show."

"There's no need for it. It isn't important." Ashton was slowly lulling to sleep by the sound of his voice. When her grandmother died, she coped by falling asleep to the sound of the television in the background. Each show and movie was different. Some were too noisy. Some too quiet. But BBC Sherlock seemed to do the trick every time.

"You're deflecting. It's a factor in this case that I find important." Sherlock's hands rattled against his chair, knowing there was something she was hiding. He needed to know what. What could be so important about the name where she would hide it? Did the show contain some... repulsive content? No, no. She wasn't embarrassed.

"I'm not a client." She muttered, "You can throw me out, but I do distinctly remember you being against that a minute ago." Her voice was softly fading as she spoke sleepily, "Doctor's orders." She teased.

Sherlock huffed, standing up, "I can easily work out a cell in the mental asylum." He challenged flatly, attempting to persuade her.

Ashton's face suddenly went pale in sudden panic and anxiety, "You wouldn't."

Sherlock smirked at her helplessness. "I can. If the game gets too sweet I might have to go through with it. I'm not one to lose."

A pained expression lit her face. "You wouldn't. You promised!" A whiny tone lingered. She tried to get up, her left leg lifting as she reached to pull herself up.

For a second, Sherlock took in her struggling expression. Her wild panicked eyes glazed in drowsiness. Sherlock poked a bony finger on her forehead and she collapsed back on the bed, dead to the world.

He shook his head, "I never promise anything."

He made himself comfortable in his chair, swiveling it just right so he could sit cross-legged. He was happy to have a quiet moment of peace for once. The rhythmic beat of the heart monitor played in the background and he could feel himself drifting into his mind palace. He concentrated, because there was only one person who could solve this case.

~ᏕᏂᏋᏒᏝᎧፈᏦ ᏂᎧᏝᎷᏋᏕ~


	4. Chapter 3

Frustration wasn't unfamiliar to Sherlock Holmes, however, he currently felt defenseless to his own particular perplexity. There was an excessive number of inquiries and insufficient answers. Was this how John felt? He pondered. It was unusual- his mind palace couldn't understand. It doubted him, provoked him, screamed at him. Continually indicating in circles; constantly wound up where he began. With those few questions. How did she get to London? Why was the interior of her house in an alleyway? Who or what did this to her? Of course, Sherlock wasn't actually believing her delirious claim of her television becoming a vacuum spontaneously. There had to be something behind it. Sherlock had tried to evaluate it through his mind palace the previous evening, but there were too many holes in the situation. He had too many questions. He needed answers.

Perhaps, Moriarty wasn't dead. He managed to stump Sherlock with his brilliant schemes and insane methods.

Dissatisfaction was extremely all he felt. That he didn't have answers, as well as the single witness was unconscious. He was hoping he could decode her. Observe her. Understand why she was the target. Without Ashton awake, however, this would be quite a challenge. He had seen her wakeful once previously, however, she had been nonsensical, on therapeutic medications, and in shock. These definitely affected practices.

He was in a continuous loop. Scan the pictures, rush to the crime scene. Reobserve, reobserve, reobserve. He knew nearly every detail of her life, from what she ate for breakfast to how organized she was, however, he couldn't make sense of what had happened a couple of hours prior.

Sherlock let out a frustrated cry and stabbed the photos with a few kitchen knives to the bullet-riddled wall. He ran his fingers through his curly hair, combing it, pulling it, and shaking the bouncy locks in frustration. He thudded onto the love seat, hands tapping restlessly against his temple as he pressed his eyes and thought. Was this how typical people were with straightforward perceptions? How pitiful.

"Why the tantrum?" John addressed from the entryway. He considered the condition of the untidy front room inquisitively, not missing the several carving knifed stabbed into the wall. "Is it that difficult to figure out?" John's interest got the best him, investigating the photographs.

"This is not a tantrum, John. I am simply solving this case."

John's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "You've been huddled here in the living room for two days now. If you were solving this case, you'd have been done at this point." John tasted at fresh tea cupped in his hand.

Sherlock lifted his face and sat up, sinking his brow to his knees. He huffed, unwilling to concede to defeat yet. Not until the girl was awake. Sherlock adjusted his collar and quickly pivoted, "I'm off to analyze her things. Coming?"

"Again?" John asked incredulously, grabbing his coat regardless, "You've been there twelve times!"

Sherlock was about to walk to the door, but he did a double take when he looked to one of the fifty photos he had hung on the wall. He scrunched his eyebrows, perturbed by what he saw; something that shouldn't quite be there. Something that caused his made his skin tingle and slither with dread.

He was swift, slipping out the door, and waving a taxi down. He stated his destination snappily, demanding to accelerate. He sat firmly the whole ride, his mind going over what he had seen. Had he truly observed what he thought he had?

John saw Sherlock's uncommon apprehensive behavior, and he became cautious. "Sherlock? You good? What'd you see?" He narrowed his eyes at the fidgety detective. What had made Sherlock so uneasy?

Sherlock's hand ran through his wavy locks, "I'm not.. sure. It's to do with us." His eyes held an on edge manner. His eyes flash over to a stressed John. Letting out a breath, he chuckled emptily, "It's not dangerous or anything, just... unnerving." Startling.

John considered and watched out the window with a confused, concerned demeanor painted on his face, "Okay, but what does that mean? To do with us?" He finally burst the question, turning to face the detective. "Surely something that made you this upset would be important."

Sherlock scoffed, "I'm not upset." His body language betrayed him. Sherlock's fingers tapped on the seat as the taxi eased back to a stop and he scurried out of the car, John in tow. Sherlock pretended not to hear the ex-army doctor.

"Sherlock! What was in the photograph?" John's voice was requesting, almost begging, he was so bewildered. John felt ignorant next to his brilliant friend. He couldn't figure out a person's life story by viewing their outfit, and he couldn't find out who was a murder by seeing their footprints. He could just truly go off of what Sherlock let him know.

Sherlock was shuffling through her belongings when John caught up and had ducked under the caution tape. The detective could almost hear his thoughts churning in that little mind of his. Sherlock battled a shudder, despite the fact that his coat was still on. Sherlock took a long stride to where his eyes watched in suspicion. Hunching, he carefully got a handle on what had grabbed his attention. He could feel John's eyes on him as he worked the object from the pile. He held it in the air, enabling John to view it.

It was a small DVD case, which disturbingly had Sherlock and John posing for the photo. Large words read Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes went over what they had seen in the photograph, the little BBC printing at the top and the words describing the film. Sherlock felt his heart stammer as he looked over the printing, and that this was the first season. Ominous words, Study in Pink, Blind Banker, and Great Game were supposed to be the episodes, ones that Sherlock only knew from John's blog.

John felt Sherlock grimace as he took the case into his own hands, turning it over and seeing the same things Sherlock had observed. He might not have been as brilliant as Sherlock, but he wasn't a complete idiot. "Is someone stalking us? Is the girl? I mean, this is.. is it fake?"

Sherlock stood, placing his hands in his pockets, "Professionally done. Not the girl. There's a price tag," He pointed to the little sticker. "Bought from a garage sale; handwritten. Scratches. Dust. It's old and played excessively. Daily, even." Sherlock wasn't meeting John's eyes, as they were flickering over the DVD case once more.

Sherlock nearly felt disgrace; he'd generally depended on his capacities, however now they were futile to this peculiar case. Nothing connected as they always had.

John shrugged, "Maybe she is right? Maybe the television... did, swallow her up. I mean, who knows?" He turned the DVD case over in his hand, "Creepy, though." He squinted at the title page, "And a horrendous picture of me."

Sherlock split a little grin, taking the case from John and fitting it into his long coat. "Now... to get all this to the lab."

John raised his eyebrows in surprise, "All of it?" His mind automatically replayed how crowded their house and lab already was.

"Try not to be idiotic, John. I meant simply the imperative things. Like her wallet, her shoes, some things for her when she's moving in. Items to analyze."

"She's moving in!?" John shouted in dismay. His jaw had dropped in astonishment as he froze to stare at the detective.

Sherlock brought his attention back to John, disappointment hinting on his face for John's absence of reasoning. Shaking his head, he got back to plucking items from the heap that would make great research on the baffling young lady. "Goodness, do keep up, John. She has no place to live. Obviously, she's moving in."

"Well, this is news to me." John crossed his arms, huffing and crouching down to help sort the mass of items. He pinched an edge of a black plastic, and to his surprise, it was a large bag full of trash. He mumbled under his breath about how rarely he was informed while eyeing the trash, carefully picking up the reeking bag and holding it before him.

Sherlock turned upward from his engaged position, attempting to get any longer insights he could from the pile of things. It was too simple to read her and what she did. It resembled reading a book, with the exception that Sherlock could read twelve books on how she ate soup from only one look. Furthermore, Sherlock had had plenty of glances.

John let a vacant laugh slip, "I discovered some rubbish." He announced. He held the bag out to Sherlock in distaste. He had no need to go near the putrid fumes that were being emitted from the black bag. He gave a knowing grunt and shoved it into the detective's chest impatiently, "Here. Just don't put anything in the microwave."

Sherlock stood with excited energy. Investigations going through his mind, he grinned like a child on Christmas. "Splendid, John. Splendid!" He applauded a took the pack, looking in, "Ohh, this ought to be fun. Take a gander at that old banana peel!" He murmured in awe, shutting the sack and setting it to the side. "Astonishing."

Sherlock kept on scavenging through the stack and snatch things he discovered imperative, similar to the vase shards and particularly the broken TV. Anything suspicious was set in a couple of empty boxes found in the heap. Sherlock was set to discover the purpose for this abnormal case.

John watched as the brilliant detective organized the items thoroughly as he stood there awkwardly. He watched him locate the sensitive shards of the vase which could be as little as a pea. It was all very entrancing, the result.

Sherlock ended up with seven larger boxes of things. Some for the case, some for experiments, and most sacrificed for the teen, who now apparently had nothing. He ended up balancing five in his arms, while John held the other two. It was interesting, carrying five boxes to the taxi, but he was always up for a challenge.

John watched the ridiculous detective as he carried five boxes that looked half his size. Raising an eyebrow, John helped stuff the items in the cab, although it did take some motivation of the skeptical driver. They were squished inside, boxes on their laps, under their feet, and in the middle of them. It made John's muscles to ache, sitting in such a position, however, he reminded himself it was around fifteen minutes to Baker Street.

And it did, with some chatter between the pair, the ride seemed quick. Sherlock was eager to get the items quickly into the flat and thank the cab driver, tipping him extra.

Almost immediately, Sherlock was on the floor, looking over the items with his magnifying glass. John snorted at the curly-haired man, who was so animated in solving the mysterious case he didn't understand.

Eventually, Sherlock had gone into his mind palace, John was quick to make himself comfortable, making tea and sitting on his chair. He glanced uncomfortably at the detective, who was who was muttering to himself and hands clasped in a praying position. Once in a while, John wondered what he experienced in that genius brain.

Probably genius stuff.

Sherlock was stuck trying to figure out how it might have happened, but it all led back to the television and those main questions. For once in his life, he questioned himself. Imagine a scenario in which John was correct. Imagine a scenario where she truly had flown through the television and laws of material science had been broken.

Amid his existential crisis, he contemplated numerous things that had passed his brain. About the proof he'd found, and how they connected back to what the girl had claimed. About how a person could go about causing such a demonstration. He speculated possibly Moriarty was back, prepared to befuddle him and test his limits. But in all truth, Sherlock was stumped. He truly didn't realize what had happened.

He yelled in impatience, flashing out of his mind palace. A startled John sat in the recliner, his eyes wide in surprise at the sudden motion. Sherlock wanted to shoot something, the wall, perhaps, as he did sometimes when he was bored. But this time, it was of frustration.

He stood, calming himself and straightening his coat. "I'm off to get the girl." He stated roughly, "Lestrade told me yesterday about her condition." He grabbed his scarf and quickly threw it around his neck, "She'll be alright."

Sherlock was out the door before John could react, calling a taxi. It was a peaceful ride, as one would expect without talkative John there, intruding on his thoughts. It was decent... although, to some degree.. desolate. Lonely.

Into the hospital, clad in his long coat, strode a tall, mysterious figure.

~ᏕᏂᏋᏒᏝᎧፈᏦ ᏂᎧᏝᎷᏋᏕ~


	5. Chapter 4

Ashton woke up in a haze, wrapped in blankets. The sun was shining on her face through the windows brightly. Her frame was padded by a delicate material. She let out a grunt, squinting and turning lethargically. A long screech left her lips as she fumbled inside her blankets, falling off the bed and to the floor flat on her face, and rolling halfway under the coffee table. Her mind concentrated on a certain something: this wasn't her home.

She was in shock, as memories overflowed back and with moderate acknowledgment she found she was in the apartment she had only ever on TV. This was Sherlock Holmes' flat. A replica, she suspected, as she was certain she was daydreaming and this was some debilitating joke.

Her fears turned to the worst as as Sherlock hurried out in his longcoat, verifying whether there might have been a break-in, burglary, or maybe an attempted kidnapping, however all he found was the late teen tangled in her covers. Sherlock frowned, "That took a level of expertise," He remarked flatly, gazing down at the girl caught in a heap of blankets.

Ash stared and then let out a choked cry that was ascending from her throat, "How did I get here?" It was a terrified yell, however and she battled against the covers, yet she didn't move off the floor. Her breathing getting to be shallow and quick.

Sherlock assessed the situation carefully, although couldn't help but roll an eye at her reaction, "We took you to our flat from the hospital since you clearly have no present home." He tugged at the blanket's tangles and yanked them off. "You've been out for a couple of days, yet I think the medications are finally wearing off. You truly do panic too often." He checked over her state, happy to find she had finally collected herself and was now calm. "Good," Sherlock mused, "Now that you're awake and practical, I can interrogate you." He grinned, energized and inquisitive, which gave her a terrible flashback to the nightmarish experience that'd occurred just the previous evening. His eyes were already interrogating her emotions.

Ash had kept her thoughts and actions in check. "I'm not a client." She spat, in spite of the fact that she needed to keep from gazing at his cheekbones. "And I already told you what happened."

Sherlock let of a gruff sigh, "Dull. We both know you're not telling me everything." His face twisted and frowned, the answers were out there, and he needed to know. He needed to know what was truly going on, and why it was. He didn't want to believe the television tale, and though he wouldn't admit it, he didn't know what else to believe. There were no facts to lead him to any other conclusion. No certainties to lead him to some other conclusion.

A muffled cough uncovered a worn out looking John Watson remaining in the door of the lounge room, who held his disappointed look at Sherlock. "Interrogation at this hour in the day? You could have at least made some coffee. She needs to rest." John pointed at Ash's depleted face and raccoon eyes.

"I didn't wake her." The detective brought his hands up in mock surrender and gestured toward Ashton, "She completed a shockingly decent impression of a caterpillar's metamorphosis, however." Sherlock murmured and looked toward his violin, yet turned towards John, "Black, two sugars."

John stood unmoving at the entryway, clearing undaunted by Sherlock's request. Rather, he crossed the room and sat in his own particular seat. He was likewise looking very dead from the absence of rest. He gazed distrustfully at Sherlock, "How on earth are so enthusiastic?"

Sherlock shrugged, confronting Ashton. "Answer my questions."

She folded her arms in rebellion, prepared to shield herself against Sherlock's clever remarks.

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "You're correct. This is Lestrade's case, now. You're a witness. If you don't talk, that makes you a suspect." He grinned astutely.

Aston about giggled, "A suspect of my own assault. Splendid, Sherlock. Go ahead and arrest me. I'm not pressin' charges." She brought her hands up in mock surrender, including a phony pouty lip.

"Answer me!" The fretful man demanded, which brought a laugh from John. Sherlock spun toward his companion, "What?"

The doctor was looking very amused with himself, watching this unfurl. "She won't answer you if you ask that way." John laughed in dismay at the dumbfounded investigator.

Sherlock shut his eyes in disturbance, "This is important and of significance." They again opened, his ice-blue pupils looking into Ash's earth-shaded ones. "It's more straightforward for you to simply let me know as opposed to observing it out of you. Shortens the case."

"Please," Ash sneered, a sudden attitude sparking out of her in self-defense, "You barely know anything about me. You told me very few things." She smugly stated.

Competition and challenge flashed in Sherlock's eyes, "I only stated the relevant information, but I do suppose I can evaluate." He took a sharp, sure breath, "You used to be in track, and recently started again. Judging by the tears in the soles, you quit for the span of two years. Perhaps off of something sentimental, like a death. Most likely your grandmother. Chocolate lover, your weakness, and recent addiction to eating nutella from the jar, which is extremely unsanitary, by the way. It's another unhealthy way to cope. Played baseball in your more youthful years, in light of the antiquated small mitt I'd found... right-handed. Although that's easy to see just by observing the calluses on your hands. By the look of it, your a writer. A decent one. Your accent screams Minnesota, but you moved to one of the larger cities, New York. "

"Wow." Ash expelled, She didn't know where this disposition had originated from earlier, but she didn't care for it. It was snarky and discourteous. "That was.. I apologize. How did you know I live.. lived in New York?"

"That was a guess." Sherlock clasped his hands together, now serious. "Now."

Sherlock faltered. His eyes furrowed in concentration and bewilderment, something that was almost never painted on his face, as his thoughts filtered back to the one thing that was on his mind: the DVD. "What is Sherlock BBC?" His mouth spat out the word, eyes gazing into Ashton's and shaking her arm somewhat. "Why am I on DVD? Why are we on DVD?" He scanned for answers. A murmur of consolation was heard from John.

Ashton's eyebrows ascended in fear, acknowledging what he'd found. Her heart gave an apprehensive shudder and she stood, her hands trembling as she edged towards the entryway, lurching. Sherlock stood, snatching her left arm quickly. Ash was stuck in a moment for what seemed like hours. Her mind flooded her with adrenaline, her eyes frozen on the detective. She could hear John trying to assure her panicked state from afar, but she was paying no attention. She shuddered, being so close the Sherlock Holmes. It was a bit mesmerizing. And then she freaked, once more.

Before she even found the opportunity to run out, Sherlock wasted no time surging after the young lady. Sherlock, who was in practice, grabbed Ash by the shoulders and maneuvered her into his chest, circling an arm around her neck into a loose chokehold. She struggled weakly against his steady arm, and he did not look amused. "Really? That was very dissapointing." he jeered into her ear, "You're not escaping, and it's very pathetic to watch your endeavors. Try not to influence me to knock you out, as I obviously have the physical advantage."

She paused, "Why do you care? You could just let me go. I'm not of importance." She gave a pull at his arms yet they didn't move from their firm grasp on her head.

"I require answers." He snarled. "Please do stop panicking, it's quite annoying to deal with." He walked off, hauling her thoughtlessly, her head still secured his arms. Sherlock imprudently let Ashton's legs thrash trying to keep up with him and the awkward position she was in.

He was mindful of John's curious eyes from the family room and he pulled the girl back in by the head. She stood flaccidly, spine slightly bent to accommodate to the placing of her head. She didn't try to escape. Sherlock tenderly pushed her from his arms, which she thrashed around, and landed clumsily onto the sofa yet again. She felt somewhat vanquished, as she'd trusted that perhaps Sherlock was only a fictional character. She couldn't tell what was quite going on, as this was the most real lucid dream she's ever had.

Sherlock now sat parallel to Ash, "What is this? It looks like you've rewatched it plenty of times." He shoved the disk case in her face.

Ashton grabbed the case, looking over the one disk she'd binge-watched almost everyday after her grandmother died. The one thing that kept her sane. She belanched, acknowledging something: you can't read in dreams; she could read it clearly. Her words were bobbled, "You mean... you haven't watched it?" She ran her fingers over the cover, following Sherlock's figure.

Sherlock shook his head, "I was tempted, however I ruled against it. I was trusting you could let us know. Appears like you recognize it." He glanced to Ash and the DVD case, then quickly to the silent John who was listening intently.

Ash wrung her hands around her wrists, "I do." She looked up, meeting the eyes of Sherlock nervously, then John. She inhaled sharply, "You guys... aren't real. God, this all isn't real. 221B isn't real. It's a television show. That's why I was hesitant to tell you, Sherlock. This is that show I'd been watching."

Sherlock didn't move a muscle. He just gazed at her, his complete attention on each word she said and move she made.

"I have evidence. You strolled into the Buckingham castle wearing a sheet. You jumped off a building for John and stayed "dead" for two years. You disassembled Moriarty's networks, with scars to prove it. You have an adorable earhat and your purple shirt is screamed over. John, your wife- oh crap- is she..? Dead? Sorry, sorry. Has Moriarty returned yet? The fandom has been waiting for season five and it's making everybody insane. Also, Sherlock, you have a sister that like, slaughtered your best friend. Or, god, has that happened? I was just watching season one. I may have just revealed to you your future-"

"We've heard enough." Sherlock was deadly calm, yet there was a waver in his tone. "So... you're saying this show holds John and my whole time we've known each other?" His eyes glanced at the DVD case, uncertain of what to do with this new data.

"Yes." Ash affirmed, flipping the case in her grasp. "At least until... well, now. There are only four seasons." She sighed, "I've rewatched them too many times to count. You... you shouldn't watch this, though."

"And why not?"

Ash remained silent for a moment, "Tragedy... and trauma." Her gaze flickered to John, "I cried in those moments, if it makes you feel better." She offered. Ashton froze, "Where would Rosie be?"

John stiffened, his face grey and ashen, his eyes dark. He exhaled, "With Mycroft." A bitter look flash across his face and he clasped his hands together tightly.

With... what? Why is she with Mycroft?" The possibility of little Rosie with Mycroft appeared to be preposterous, nearly abuse. Mycroft could be... odd around kids. He generally acted so burdened when he was to look after children.

Sherlock and John looked uncomfortable, and Ashton couldn't pin why. Had they been doing something important? Why go through the trouble to hand Rosie over to Sherlock's older git of a brother? Scenarios raced through Ashton's imagination. Had something taken place? Had something gone wrong with Rosie? Something dangerous? Was Sherlock doing something dangerous? Perhaps an experiment, a calm thought suddenly interrupted the shocked ones. Maybe, they just needed her out of the way while they accomplished something possibly unsafe in the flat.

"You... wouldn't have known." John said painstakingly, testing the waters of the unstable girl.

"Known what?" She shouted. Confusion bound each word she spoke, and as she watched the two share a look, she wriggled in her seat restlessly. "What? What's wrong?" Alarm flashed in her eyes, "What's happening?"

Sherlock investigate the girl. She had anxiety, a twisted case of it, he suspected by surveying her current nervous state. Bite fingernails were a sign, alongside her little rashes on her inner elbows, showing scratching at whatever point she had an episode. The bags under her eyes were a darker purple, so she hadn't had great rest for a considerable length of time. Her lips were dried out, and it gave him full perspective of how she bit them.

Sherlock took a deep breath, pushing away his unnecessary facts he'd noticed. "While you've been unconscious..."

"...Moriarty returned."

~ᏕᏂᏋᏒᏝᎧፈᏦ ᏂᎧᏝᎷᏋᏕ~


	6. Chapter 5

_Before..._

Sherlock's shoes crisply padded along the sidewalk of the colder night. He had decided to cut the cab ride short. Wishing to walk the rest of the way to the hospital, aiming to stretch his legs before he would be crowded in a cab with the unconscious girl.

A sharp chill against his temple sent a ripple of instinct through his nervous system. His leg muscles clenched and he whipped out John's stolen Browning, aiming it at the foe who was in a similar position. It was dark, but Sherlock knew a thug when he saw one. The lowest creature of the food web. So _easily_ manipulated, a minion under the perfect blackmail and coaxing.

His balance was even, hand steady as he aimed the danger-end toward his offender. Dull. "I despise your adoration of drama. Could you not have done this _before_ my stroll? You might have had a higher success rate, yet you wait until the _sharpest_ corner. It must have taken a ridiculous amount of planning. I'm thoroughly unimpressed, Moriarty."

The gun never wavered, remaining steadily at against the detectives temple. "Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_." A voice from inside the alley sang and echoed, bouncing off alley walls. "Long time, no _see._ How _disappointed_ I am in you. Sherlock Holmes- _despising_ _drama_?! What an _oxymoron_!" Cackling continued. "Faking a death sounds _quite_ dramatic to me. So much sentiment. Has your friend seen the artwork along your back yet?"

"What a waste of time. Why antagonize me here? What a dreadfully dull choice of aesthetic." Sherlock glared at the gloomy scenery.

"Ah, ah, ah, _Sherloooock_." The psychopath chuckled dangerously in the dark. "It's all about the drama. Efficiency is boring. So prepared. So _neutral_. There nothing _raw_ or _deep_ about it." There was a pause followed by a deep sigh of apathy. "I'm sorry about your pet, Sherlock, but he was being rather fussy. Fiesty pets get muzzled."

A struggle of shuffling feet skittered about the alleyway, and into the light stepped two minions and a compromised John Watson. It couldn't have been comfortable in the slightest. A minion was pulling and combing through his roommate's hair, as if a dog being comforted. He was tied in multiple places, barely allowed any mobility. A disgusting leash was around his neck, likely only for the purpose of looks. It was highly ineffective and scarcely restricting, unlike his bindings. John's eyes were wide in a rare, unguarded fear; disliking his lack of mobility. His mouth was free, but not a word had been uttered.

Sherlock's expression shifted from unamused to intrigued, although likely his concern for his friend was slightly overpowering. "What do you want."

A figure stepped out of the shadows, standing parallel to his only companion. A dark smile was plastered on his face, hinting his insanity. "Well... I used to want you _dead_. But that would be such a waste now. See, you have a new _friend_ , Sherlock." He pinched John's cheek, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger viciously. A devilish smile crept to his souless eyes. "Not exactly _this_ loyal one, though. Mystery girl, hm? Ring any bells? You see, you've brought a new _toy_ , Sherlock. Keep your pets close. You don't want them put down now, do we? Biting pets are never good ones."

Anticipation crawled at Sherlock's spine, itching to see Moriarty's next actions as he felt the end of the maniac's speech. But they left as soon as they'd snuck up on him. Moriarty strolled off carelessly and a minute later a snap sounded and his hitmen sprung off, shoving tied John toward the shaken up consulting detective.

Sherlock was quick to assess his setting, and once assumed safe, he tore the bindings from John's limp form. Hacking off rope and zip-ties with a picket-knife that he could see. "John!" He lightly tapped at the doctor's cheeks. "Are you alright?" Urgency was clear. The last of his restraints fell loose to the dirty concrete, and Sherlock tossed the metaphorical leash as far away as he could, utterly _disgusted_ and _repelled_ by such a thing.

Coarsely, John groaned lowly in pain, "Ye - _uh_." He answered, grunting faintly as he stretched his limbs. "Juh... just sore." He fought a cough bubbling in his lungs, but it sputtered out anyway.

That was all Sherlock needed, knees nearly buckling in relief. That could have been much worse. They were so unusually fortunate that it made Sherlock wonder how lucky they were. They might be safe now, but all this did was trade their safety for Ashton's. Sherlock was quick to snap out of his relieved faze and bound up onto his nimble toes.

"Ashton is in danger."

 _Present_...

A look of disbelief crossed Ashton's face upon hearing those two words. _Moriarty returned_. Her blood had turned icey rain at the thought of the evil mastermind even being alive. She breathed a bit unevenly, "How? How?" Blaring alarms rang within her head.

Sherlock frowned grimly. "We conversed on the way to get you from the hospital." His voice was acidic. Sherlock attempted to conceal his apologetic look, but guilt was evident as it molded over his face. "Motiarty is ready for another round. And unfortunately you're now under our watch and protection." He waved his hand in a dismissing manner.

Ashton was still a bit shocked, "And all you're going to do is wait until he strikes?" Horror filled her chest with a tight grip: she couldn't prevent this.

"That's really all you can do sometimes. Isn't it?" John sighed in sympathy for the younger girl. He stood, ready to ease the tension from talking about the evil mastermind. "Sherlock, how about we grab her things? Show her around? Her room..?" He hinted to the detective.

Sherlock caught the hint swiftly, "Ah, yes. _That_." He rose sharply, pivoting and strolling deeper into the flat, leaving no time for the teen to pause. Sherlock unlocked the door with a set of keys hiding in his pocket. "Mrs. Hudson is a generous woman. Hm, thin walls. If there's a serial killer around we'll be there in seconds." He affirmed, lazily waved his hands to the clean walls and empty rooms. He turned around to see her reaction.

 _Very reasuring, Sherlock._

Sherlock's disgust was growing for the boundless energy that might cause the girl to burst. "We had originally grabbed a few boxes for you- essentials. But we figured it'd be easiest to grab it all." He said as he opened the bedroom, revealing dozens of cardboard boxes and a new bed.

"Where's my futon?" She eyed the new bed. It had been made neatly, it's sheets folded and pillows fluffed to perfection. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a real bed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Destroyed. Covered in glass. Unless you enjoy the sharpness cutting of glass shards when you sleep." He curled his lip in boredom. His mind was buzzing with questions and ideas. He wasn't really keen on 'showing her around'. He inspected the walls, which were clean, boring, and dull. No bullet holes. He let a blow of air out of his nose.

"I love livin' in danger." Ashton joked, smiling at how thoughtful the boys had been. They had done all this for her, the girl that caused them the trouble of getting her out of that pile of her belongings, to the hospital, taking her home, and saving her from the deadly futon.

"Good. You'll need to." Sherlock stated humorlessly, leaving the girl to her privacy.

It left her a bit awkward and nervous, perhaps unprepared. It took her a bit of staring at the empty walls to finally get started on unpacking. She stared longingly at the old photos she found in her box, remembering when he grandmother was still alive. Of course, those weren't her only memories.

A random headache decided to churn behind her eyes, rudely breaking her thoughts. It brought her to realization clawing at the back of her mind. These thoughts- these irrational sparks of memory- were only to distract her from the cruelty of real life.

She was in denial. This had always been her wish, but now that it had become true, it was scary, and different, and _terrifying_. She found herself curling into her blankets and bed, the pressure behind her eyes burning. Tracks of tears ran down her face, and little sobs of disbelief left her. She didn't have a plan. She didn't know what to do. She shook, wrapped tight into a ball and surrounded by photos of her life back home.

"Should I bring tissues?"

She jumped during a choking blubber of breath, turning her tear-stricken face to the detective at the door. She wiped her tears impatiently, embarrassed to find herself in such a vulnerable position with the curly-haired man at her doorway. She hiccuped, trying to find herself again. "H-how-"

"Thin walls." His mouth was drawn into a thin line, wary and awkward around the emotional teen. There it was again- the word _teen_. He really was only a few years older than her- which was a thought that catapulted into his mind. He was in his twenty-one, she was nineteen. They could technically date, which added more tension into the room.

He glanced behind him, clearing his throat, "There's..." He made a clicking noise behind his teeth and took a pause before continued, "-there's a case." He offered slowly. He had no idea how to comfort crying people, much less crying _women_. He felt completely out of place. He'd rather solve a dozen stale crimes than pat her shoulder and tell her everything would be okay. He held back a shudder of discomfort.

Ash wiped her face viciously, trying to rid of the unwanted tears. "R-r... right." She hesitated, "Sorry." She sniffled. There were a few seconds of silence. Making an unrecognizable noise, she stood. "Sorry."

Her voice cracked.

God. "No-" Sherlock assured, distracted, observing to perhaps understand what was upsetting her. His eyes where never in the same place twice. "...it's- that's alright." His eyes were locked on the photos- the cause of her distress. "It's really okay." He feigned. To be honest, he couldn't care any less.

She was still disoriented from the accident, as John had told him earlier. He was trying to be careful not to trigger anything. By observing the pictures surrounding her, you could see she was mourning her dead grandmother, pets, and past friends. Memories and sentiment. It didn't even take a detective, much less Sherlock himself, to figure that out. He supposed the recent 'Television Attack', as John had named it in his blog, might have added to this level of pain. She'd been isolating herself in her flat anyway, watching... " _Sherlock BBC_ ", for quite some time.

How peculiar. Who would want to watch _him_?

No matter. "We're heading out." He gestured for her to come along, "It isn't safe for you to be alone." He paused, waiting for snappy or weepy response.

"Suppose that's a good assumption. Evil mastermind back from the dead... understood." It was more bitter than she'd planned it to be, especially toward her favorite fictional person. She sprung up, leaving the old memories on the ground, and in the past. She spoke in a gentler tone, "I should get dressed then."

"You're fine with what you're wearing, it's only a crime scene." He gestured to her outfit. He didn't know what else to say to that. He didn't understand women.

Ash's mouth twitched in confusion and then her eyebrows knitted upward, "Oh! No. I just want to get a raincoat. It's pouring out." She pointed to the window with a shy smile.

"Ah. Well, then.. hurry."

"Will do." She stated as Sherlock exited, still clad in his longcoat. She let out an exhausted breath. It was peculiar, and although Sherlock was a strange man, this exact instance seemed to repeat itself. Sherlock and Ash, in a room, alone. The hospital, the livingroom, and twice in 221C. A continued pattern that was getting awkward and.. unnatural.

But she supposed being in a fictional world was unnatural, too. So she really couldn't discriminate.

Slipping on some rain gear, she dragged herself out the door of her new apartment and trudged back down the stairs to 221B. The doorway was already open, she met the watchful eyes of Sherlock, clearly waiting upon her arrival. His eyes passed over her outfit in indifference and he called to the living room, "John! We're off to the scene! Don't waste our time!"

John's breath puffed as he stumbled out in a thick rain-proof jacket. Straightening the collar, he nodded, signalling for us to leave.

Pattering of rain sounded around us, gurgling in the storm drains and sending a spray of water as cars passed. The taxi wasn't difficult to catch, well, at least not for John and Ashton, who stood in the comfort of their raincoats as Sherlock waved down a taxi dramatically as his hair became matted and scarf soaked with rainwater. John and Ashton shared a small smirk.

Somehow, Ashton ended up in the center of the taxi. She was blushing like a tomato, constantly reminded of the fact that their legs were touching and that his longcoat was flapping onto her shoulder. She awkwardly kept her eyes ahead of her, as she had no window to look out of or phone to keep her busy. She found herself playing with the hem of his longcoat, but he yanked it from her fingers. It didn't help ease the awkward tension.

The silence was deafening.

 _Tup tup tu-tup._ Ashton tapped her fingers to the beat of the faint putter of the rain on the windows.

 _Tup tup tu-tup._

Sherlock's hand tensed on his knee, fingers curling. His frown deepened.

 _Tup tup tu-tup._

 _Tup tup tu-tup. Tup tup tu-tup. Tup tup tu-tup. Tup tup tu-tup..._

"Will. You. **_Quit_** that?" Sherlock snapped, nearly furious. Impatience flaring as his cold eyes glared at Ashton.

Ashton's hands dropped to her lap, fighting the urge to play with the sleeve of her rainjacket. Both John and Sherlock's bodies were twisted towards the door, Sherlock's head bowed as he typed something on his phone, while John gazed blankly at the rolling scenery. Ashton couldn't stand the silence anymore.

"Where are we going?"

Sherlock didn't turn from the window, but his thumb paused, skipping a beat before continuing to type away.

Ashton had always imagined what it might be if she'd been part of the story, but she'd never pictured this. Ash felt _ignored_. She was in a taxi with her favorite fictional characters and even then she was still alone. She'd _always_ been alone. Nobody understood her predicament. Not even Sherlock Holmes, who understood everything.

She watched gloomily as the rain knocked on the windshield like a determined girl scout selling cookies, but there were no cookies. Her head suddenly lashed forward as the taxi halted to an immediate stop, to which Sherlock was eager to climb out and race to his newest mystery. Ash... not so much anymore.

~ᏕᏂᏋᏒᏝᎧፈᏦ ᏂᎧᏝᎷᏋᏕ~


End file.
